


Two if by Sea

by Lono



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-05-25
Updated: 2013-05-25
Packaged: 2017-12-12 23:19:48
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,690
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/817231
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lono/pseuds/Lono
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It just wasn't Molly Hooper's day. Or life.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Two if by Sea

Prior to today, Molly Hooper hadn’t had much of an opinion about the North Sea. She didn’t love it or hate it. It was just _there_ , off of the east coast of Great Britain.  As a child, she and her father only visited the Irish Sea because her grandparents lived in Blackpool. As an adult, she’d had no reason to change that record.

Growing up, she’d often played her mother’s records, feeling somehow closer to the woman she’d only known _in utero_ as she heard the music. One song that she’d listened to frequently told the story of a woman drowning her sister in the North Sea in a fit of jealous rage. Molly had always laughed when she heard it, as the song got more and more ridiculous with each verse, ending with the doomed sister’s ribs and sternum getting turned into a self-playing harp.

So, really, her only precise thought about the body of water had been that, on hearing the words _North Sea_ , she probably shouldn’t respond by singing, “Lay the bent to the bonny broom.” People probably wouldn’t understand.

Now, as she bobbed up and down in its frigid waves, trying desperately not to swallow any more salt water than she already had, Molly came to a very definite opinion: She hated the North Sea. Quite a lot, actually.

* * *

 

_Eight hours earlier…_

* * *

Doctors and other medical professionals quickly grow accustomed to long, punishing shift work. Molly was no exception. That said, she always came off of those stints more than ready for her bed and some much-needed rest.

After she’d washed off her day of work in the shower, she had gratefully climbed into some soft sleep clothes, made sure the cat had plenty of food, and buried herself under a small mountain of blankets and pillows.

At that point, she had forty-eight blessed hours before she needed to be back at the hospital.

Four short hours later, however, her bedroom door flew open, the overhead light flicked on, and someone started rummaging noisily through her closet.

Molly jerked awake, looking wildly around for an attacker. A glimpse of a swirling, black coat told her all she needed to know about the identity of the intruder, so she rolled over onto her stomach, pulling one of her many pillows over her head.

“Sherlock, there is nothing in my closet that could possibly interest you. Get out,” she directed.

The riffling noises didn’t cease, but Sherlock Holmes did take the time to address her.

“I can’t understand a word you’re saying with your face smashed into your mattress that way. And this isn’t for me. I’m looking to see if you have a mac. You’re going to need it.”

Molly groaned, feeling herself waking more and more. Damn it.   

“Clearly, you understood me just fine. Why am I going to need a mac? My bed is quite dry, thanks.”

She could hear him huff impatiently.

“Don’t be obtuse. Here, put these on,”—several articles of clothing landed on her back—“and maybe brush your hair. It looks like a thicket.”

Molly wondered if she tuned him out, would he just go away?  In a lot of ways, he was like one of those high-maintenance plants that required constant feeding, trimming, and spritzing.  Maybe Sherlock would wither if she ignored him, just like that flowering jasmine she’d received last Christmas and promptly forgotten.

Sadly, that tack didn’t work, either.

Later, she would remember that she actually wailed when he flung back her bedcovers and grabbed a hold of her ankle, pulling her bodily down to the foot of the bed. At the time, however, she was too filled with rage to care.

Sherlock looked unimpressed as she let him know just what she thought about his high-handed methods.  He even had the gall to check his watch as she spewed obscenities at him.

“Are you quite finished?” He asked when she paused her tirade to catch her breath.

“No! I am not finished! If you think I’m going to do anything for you now—not that I was to begin with, since you’ll note I am not a work—then you’re _sadly_ mistaken,” She poked his chest to really drive the point home.

He just sighed, gently batting her index finger away from where it was digging into the breast pocket of his suit.

“You really are wasting time here, Molly. If we hurry, we can catch our train without any problem, but you’re making that more and more unlikely. And might I add, this cantankerous side of you isn’t flattering.”

Molly gave up trying to explain to where ‘right’ was and how far away from it he was.

“What train?” She asked.

Sherlock expelled another aggrieved puff of air.  “Oh for god’s sake… the train to Hull. The train we discussed taking yesterday. Do keep up.”

For a brief moment, Molly actually worried that she’d forgotten some agreed-upon trip. But then she remembered to whom she was speaking.

“Just out of mild curiosity, Sherlock, when did we discuss taking a train to Hull?”

For his part, while he was not thrilled to be having this discussion, he did seem to make a genuine effort to recall the alleged conversation.

“It would have been… sometime after you took your early snack break. I remember, because you came back with custard dripped on your lab coat.”

“Yes, Sherlock,” she explained somewhat patiently. “My lab coat had custard on it. Which was why I came back to the lab. I was there for all of fifteen seconds, changing that lab coat before I went to an important staff meeting. Which took half of the afternoon. We didn’t exchange a single word. And you were gone when I returned.”

“No,” he argued, “I distinctly remember you being there for this.”

She felt a new calm descend over her. The type of calm one gets when she’s absolutely certain she is right and her opponent wrong.

“Is there any chance that you had this conversation with my soiled lab coat, which I left hanging on a hook by the lab entrance?”

Sherlock opened his mouth to disagree and then closed it again, a slight frown curving his mouth and wrinkles of consternation appearing between his brows.  And finally, “Oh.”

Molly nodded, giving him a placating pat on the shoulder. She schooled her expression to one of mingled regret and pity as she moved away from him, bundling her blankets back onto the bed.

“We all make mistakes. Anyway, it’s been lovely chatting with you, Sherlock. If you’ll make sure you lock the door behind you, I’d appreciate it.”

On that pronouncement, she climbed back into bed, covering herself with bedding.

Silence.

And then she felt her mattress dip as he sat down on the edge of the bed by her hip.

“Molly,” he said softly, lowly. Almost as if he thought dulcet tones would erase the last eight minutes and he would only just now be waking her up.

 _Nice try, Holmes_ , she thought to herself.

“No,” she said aloud.

“Molly,” he tried again, even more cajoling, if that was possible.

“No.”

“Please? I really need your help.”

 _Sherlock_ actually said “ _please_.”  He asked for her _help._

Molly scolded her resolve for its weakened state.

“Why aren’t you asking John to go up to Hull? Why me?”

She could actually hear Sherlock’s lip curling as he responded, “He had some army reunion. He and Mary left this evening and won’t be back until Sunday evening. And you are perfectly adequate in his stead.”

“Oh, well, _thanks_ ,” she said sarcastically.

His response of “You’re welcome,” came without a trace of irony.

Molly watched her blessed hours of rest flitting away, like the wings of so many Sherlock-disturbed birds. With a groan, she sat back up, scooting around him so she could stand and gather the clothing he’d tossed at her earlier.

She stood there looking at him expectantly, but he just blinked at her, once again displaying his usual meager grasp of inference.

“I need to get dressed,” she prompted.

“Yes, you do,” he agreed.

He remained seated.

With a sigh, Molly stalked off to her bathroom, wondering why she was bothering doing even that.  It wasn’t like he’d be overcome with lust at the sight of her naked body. He’d probably just want to critique her life decisions based on the scar on her thigh, earned, along with a merit badge, on a Girl Guides camping trip.

It just wasn’t her day. Or life.

…

Molly would later regret not asking Sherlock the purpose of their trip. It really should have been the first enquiry out of her mouth after her “Why not John?” question. She had no excuse other than exhaustion for the oversight.

It wasn’t until they were seated, the train rocking gently as it pulled away from King’s Cross Station, that she turned to Sherlock to get some answers.

“What’s in Hull?”

Sherlock tapped out something on his phone, not bothering to look up at her.

“A lot of things, I imagine. I hear there’s a university there, along with a maritime museum.”

Molly was unimpressed by his answer.

When she failed to reply, Sherlock finally glanced away from his mobile, his eyebrows arching at her pointed look.

“Oh, you’re wondering _why_ we’re going to Hull? We’re bound for Aldbrough, actually. We’re going to try to intercept a particular ship before it enters the Humber estuary; however, there’s no rail station there, so Hull it is. We’ll hire a car and drive the rest of the way.”

“And the case?” She prompted.

He took the time to pocket his phone as he turned his attention fully to her.

“I’ve been hired by a private party to locate some missing art. The individual who hired me tells me that he agreed to lend some rather large marble pieces to a museum in York, each worth millions of pounds. The owner witnessed the statuary being loaded onto the freighter and saw the ship leave port. But when it arrived in Kingston-Upon-Hull, all of the marbles were gone—simply vanished.”

“How big are these marbles?” Molly asked.

“According to my client, Mr. de Vries, they each nearly weigh a ton. Heavy enough that they required cranes to load them onto the ship.”

“How would one-ton slabs of marble get stolen from a ship?” She pressed.

Sherlock smiled contentedly.  “That’s the mystery, isn’t it? I imagine the puzzle will be easily deciphered, but it’s sometimes enjoyable to get out of the city for a bit of a constitutional.”

Molly gave a moment’s thought to the fact that only Sherlock would consider a hellaciously early morning trip to an industrial city to be a constitutional. But she was still bothered by the case at hand.

“But why not go to the police? Why did Mr. de Vries come to you instead of the authorities?”

He settled in, stretching his long legs out and resting his feet on the empty, rear-facing bench seat in front of them.

“He knew they would be inept in the matter,” Sherlock explained smugly.

Molly simply looked at him and waited.

He sighed and straightened, once more putting his feet on the floor of their train car.

“And he perhaps mentioned that he wanted to have the case basically solved before he took it before the police. Since it will create an international _Incident_.”

Molly nodded in understanding before continuing, “Were they at least insured?”

Sherlock _hmm_ ed in the affirmative. “But de Vries insists that they hold sentimental value, too. More like appreciable value, as the artist’s work—a man who goes simply by the name Heinrich—has gained quite a lot of popularity in recent years.

At that, Sherlock once again sprawled out, taking up most of his space and quite a bit of Molly’s, too, as he closed his eyes. 

“Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’m feeling a bit tired. I’m going to sleep for the rest of the train ride. Do pay attention and let me know when we reach Hull.”

Molly eyed his comfortable obliviousness. She eyed his cup of tea wedged into the plastic holder bolted beneath the window. She eyed his shiny curls and wondered what they would look like after a tea bath.

But then she realized that, if she dumped the lukewarm liquid onto her seatmate’s head, which was currently drooping toward her shoulder, some of it would drip onto her.

She decided it wasn’t worth it.

For now.

…

Picking up their hired car proved easy enough. Sherlock even drove (much to Molly’s surprise—she’d had him pegged as a backseat driver; keen on instructing, not so much on _doing_ ).  The trip from Hull to Aldbrough was a short one, uneventful  and quiet with little conversation between the two passengers.

Sherlock pulled into a car park that faced a small pier. As far as Molly could see, the only boats mooring in this particular section of docks were pleasure crafts, but she followed Sherlock without comment. He led her down the first row of docks, stopping at the very last boat. It was a small fishing vessel, one that had been hiding behind its far shinier neighbors.

The man busy hauling boxes of bait on board looked so much like the stereotypical, salty seaman that Molly had to force herself not to look for a peg leg. She assumed she’d be disappointed, anyway, but his grizzled beard, lazy eye, and sun-taxed skin all lent him a rather piratical appearance.

“We’re looking the _Temperance._ Are we in the right place?” Sherlock asked the man.

“That you are,” the man said, scrambling back onto dockside. Two feet, then, Molly noticed.  “Bill O’Brien at your service. Are you Sherlock Holmes?”

“I am,” Sherlock nodded. “And this is Molly Hooper. She’ll be assisting me today. Are you about ready to cast off?”

O’Brien grinned a bit lopsidedly at Molly before assuring Sherlock that they were on schedule to leave.

Once he’d finished loading his cargo onto the boat, he shuffled his way into the sheltered helm, reemerging a few moments later with two, puffy orange monstrosities.

Life jackets, Molly thought, feeling her mood brighten slightly. It wasn’t that she was a _bad_ swimmer, per se. She just had a tendency to sink without hard work to stay afloat. Plus, there was the minute bit of warmth it’d add on that chilly, damp morning.

“’Fraid you’ll have to wear these. She’s a good boat, but she can be a bit unsteady in choppy waters.”

Molly gratefully took hers and strapped it on. She turned to see if Sherlock had followed suit, but he was too busy curling his lip in distaste to have done any such thing.

“I’ll take my chances,” he said flatly.

He turned to look at Molly, his eyes widening a little at the sight of her in her many layers of camisole, turtleneck, jumper, fleece, mac, scarf, and, now, life jacket.  She may have imagined it, but she thought she saw his lips curve ever so slightly before he cleared his throat and turned back to face the boat’s captain once more.

“Shall we be off?” he asked.

…

In her thirty-three years, Molly had never suffered from motion sickness. She prided herself on her strong stomach both in and out of the morgue. But she’d be lying if she didn’t acknowledge that it was for the best that she’d skipped eating a bacon and ketchup toastie on the train ride. It would have perhaps provided tempting chum to whatever fish Bill O’Brien caught, but she had no desire to spend her morning doubled over the boat’s railing. Even though the only contents in her stomach were water and tea, she still felt them roil uncomfortably as they bobbed along some rather steep waves.

Sherlock did not seem to share her malady. His position at right at the bow of the ship brought to mind Jack Dawson in _Titanic_ , but she somehow doubted Sherlock would either understand or appreciate it if she asked him if he was feeling kingly ( _“Keenly, did you say? Keenly what, Molly? Do stop mumbling”)._

He’d been on the lookout for the freighter for some time now, but Molly wasn’t sure they’d be able to see anything through the misty rain. Including an iceberg, she thought distressingly to herself.

But just as she was about to suggest that Sherlock tell Mr. de Vries that they’d discovered a mermaid had taken his statuary to her secret, underwater grotto (Molly may or may not have spent a lot of her free time drowning in a sea of pop culture), she spotted a shadowy, hulking mass moving toward them through the water.

The freighter, when it was in sight, was enormous. It was several stories high, with heavy cranes hanging off both its port and starboard sides. Their chains clanged loudly against the ship’s steel siding, adding to the rather forbidding atmosphere the ship permeated.

Sherlock signaled something to O’Brien, who simply nodded and made a somewhat sharp turn on the tiller of his small boat, now dwarfed by the ship still getting alarmingly nearer.

Miraculously, they avoided the ship mowing them down, and as they continued along its side, Molly spotted a gangway door opening on one of the ship’s lower levels.  A man poked his head out, nodding to them in acknowledgement. He waited patiently until they broke even with him.

He was several feet above them, but he easily caught the end of rope that O’Brien tossed up to him. He leaned back into the ship, somehow tethering the small boat to the freighter.

What followed was something that Molly would try her best to forget. While the man was only a five or so feet higher than they off of the water, it was no small matter getting two of the fishing boat’s passengers up into the ship. The boat kept bobbing a distressing distance away from the ship’s hull, and, no matter what assurances Sherlock gave her, she just wasn’t sure a rope ladder was the best mode of transfer.

She was right to worry. Both boat and ship rocked at different times, in different directions. More than once, she found herself furiously weaving her arms through the ladder rungs in a desperate attempt not the fall into the churning water. After a few near misses, and one ignominious moment where dear-god-she-hoped-it-was-Sherlock’s hand ended up on her bottom, trying to push her further up the ladder, Molly managed to stumble her way on the ship.

She braced her back against a cold, steel wall, gasping for air as she waited for Sherlock. She imagined it would take some time, judging by her own experience. But no, of course not. No sooner had she settled in than Sherlock came nimbly into view, climbing aboard with none of her ill grace.

He didn’t spare any time for introductions between her and the man who’d greeted them. Instead, Sherlock turned to him and began barking orders.

“Take me to the cargo hold,” he instructed. “And do be quiet about it. The fewer people that know we’re on board, the better.”

The crewman nodded once and took off down the dark hallway at a fast clip, Sherlock right on his heels.

Molly quickly straightened and hurried after the two, not managing to suppress the shivers coursing through her. The ship’s hold was not much warmer than outside, but that wasn’t all. She couldn’t shake the feeling that they were being watched. When looking around her showed no one spying from a doorway or following them, she shook her head, deciding she had imagined the sensation.

Finally, they arrived in a cavernous room. It ran almost half the length of the ship and its vaulted ceiling reached at least three decks above them. The lighting was as dim as anywhere, which made the shadowy masses piled throughout the room seem that much more foreboding.

“Where were the marbles?” Sherlock asked the other man.

The sailor pointed wordlessly to the farthest, darkest corner from them and took off toward it. The room was a veritable maze, and Molly had no idea how they would find their way back out of it. She could hardly make out exit signs in the hazy light.

They finally made it to their destination after much wending and weaving around crates and steel barrels. The space that had once held the allegedly large marbles was now occupied with various and sundry boxes and what looked to be a covered automobile.

Sherlock set right to work. Molly watched as he clambered over some crates and began poking around in general. Unsure of what assistance she was supposed to provide, she fished her mobile out of one of her many inner pockets, pulling up its torch setting.

Following Sherlock into the mess, she shuffled around a bit, before squeezing into a narrow crack between two towers of wooden crates, looking for some kind of clue, but not knowing how she could possibly identify such a clue for what it was.

Not seeing anything in her little crevasse (though she did identify the boxes’ contents to be imported bananas), she slid her way back out into the more open area. She turned to the consulting detective, who was busy swiping his finger over the surface of a box and bringing it to his tongue to taste.

“Sherlock,” she called to him. “What should I look fo—“

She drew up short when his eyes, landing on her, widened dramatically. Just then, she felt something brushing the back of her neck. Something hairy.

With a dispirited sigh, Molly plunked down on the nearest box.

“There’s a tarantula on me, isn’t there?”

He nodded wordlessly.

 _Damn those bananas_ , she took the time to think.

She could no longer feel it on her neck, so she began twisting her head around, trying to see it over her shoulders with no luck.

“Well, where is it?” She asked her companion. She expected him to come over and assist her, but he stayed stock-still, not moving at all, as if he was the one experiencing the tarantula occupation. “Sherlock?” She prodded.

He blinked and cleared his throat. “On your back now. Upper left side.”

Molly ineffectually reached behind her, trying to find the spider, but just as her fingers brushed its hairy body, it scuttled out of reach.

“A little help would be appreciated,” she suggested. Sherlock looked around a bit dazedly before his eyes landed on a broken crate slat. Hoisting it, he almost tiptoed his way over to Molly. She watched him a bit incredulously, noting the pallor of his skin.

When he reached her, he murmured, “Hold very still, Molly. I am going to try to be quick about this. Your life jacket should absorb everything, so this won’t hurt.”

With that pronouncement, he reared back slightly, wielding the crate slat like a cricket bat.

“You’re not going to kill it,” She told him firmly.

Sherlock actually slumped. He looked positively put out. “What would you suggest I do, then?” He asked crankily.

“Scoop it up and put it on back by those banana boxes,” Molly instructed patiently.

She wasn’t sure it was the best word for it, but if asked, she would have to describe Sherlock’s expression as almost… afraid. He assumed what looked like a fencing stance, putting as much distance between himself and the spider as physically possible, barely reaching her with the tip of his wooden plank. She felt him scrabble around with it, clearly not having any luck.

The spider solved the problem by running over her shoulder.

“Be careful, Molly. Don’t make any sudden moves,” Sherlock intoned lowly. “It will bite you just as soon as look at you.”

With a roll of her eyes, Molly stood, scooping the tarantula up in her hand. She grimaced a bit at the feel its furry body, but made no comment as she walked back to the banana crates. She held her hand up to one of the boxes and the spider stepped off of it, disappearing in between the wooden slats.

Turning back to the room at large, she watched Sherlock drop his weapon and straighten his scarf.

“Sherlock,” she asked delicately. “Are you arachnophobic?”

He scoffed. “Of course not. Don’t be stupid.”

Molly decided to change the subject. “What should I look for, clue-wise?”

Sherlock cleared his throat and looked around, as if trying to regather his thoughts. She didn’t think she was imagining that he was still rather twitchy as he did so.

“Look for clues,” he said, rather unhelpfully.

Molly gave up and went back to peeking around other boxes in the area. Just as she was about to give up, something on the floor caught her attention. Bending down, she picked it up.

It was no bigger than her pinky, a smooth, polished white rock, clearly broken off from a larger piece.

“I found something,” she called excitedly. She peered at the stone, trying to sorts her thoughts, but was interrupted by Sherlock bounding over to her, snatching the rock from her hands.

“Well done. So the artwork was damaged or destroyed somehow… perhaps these louts banged it up and were covering their tracks,” he considered, not bothering to lower his voice at all.

Molly sent him a quelling look that went unnoticed.

“You said that the artwork was carved from marble, didn’t you?” She asked.

He replied distractedly, “Yes, Cararra marble.”

“Well then maybe this isn’t a clue,” she said regretfully. “Because that’s not marble. It’s soap stone.”

Sherlock froze. Slowly he looked up at her and then back down to the stone. “How do you know that?” He asked carefully.

She shrugged. “I took some art classes as electives at Uni. I was never any good; most of the scars on my hands are actually from my introductory sculpture class, not scalpels.”

Sherlock dropped his head back, closing his eyes as he shouted, “Of course! Oh, we’ve been stupid.”

Molly took exception to being included in his condemnation, but she waited for him to explain.

“They never needed me to solve any case. Those sculptures were thrown overboard at the first opportunity by Mr. de Vries’ lackeys.”

So maybe her mermaid-secret-grotto theory wasn’t too far off after all, she thought to herself. Out loud, she asked, “Then why hire you?”

He chuckled dourly. “Because, it would play out so much better if he had the Great Sherlock Holmes unable to solve his case. I told you this artist is a rising star. Imagine the worth of his work in another ten years, if he stays on the same trajectory of success. Imagine the worth of work that so mysteriously disappeared. Exponentially more valuable, given time.

“Molly, this was all a ploy. De Vries had duplicates made, arranged for their ‘disappearance’, hired me on, and meanwhile, he’s likely hiding the real marbles in some vault somewhere, so he can fence them at a higher price further down the road. It’s not even all that clever.”

The sound of a gun cocking had them both looking up slowly, their eyes meeting briefly before they turned as one to look at their guide.

“It was plenty clever. You’re the idiot who couldn’t play his cards close to his chest—you didn’t even try to be subtle when you figured out that I’d lied to you,” the sailor explained, smirking. “Now look who’s being held at gunpoint. I think we’ll agree that there’s more than one fool in this game, Mr. Holmes.”

Molly glared, first at the man, before turning her accusing stare on Sherlock. “You didn’t even find out what de Vries looks like before we came out here?” She asked angrily.

“I was busy,” Sherlock replied petulantly. “And now isn’t the time. I suggest we run.”

At this, he used the toe of his shoe to kick his forgotten plank of wood up into the air, catching and chucking it at de Vries. It met its target, striking the criminal in the temple with enough force that his revolver dropped to the ground, thankfully not firing on impact.

Sherlock dove for it, knocking de Vries to the side with quite a bit of force. He was still disoriented from getting hit in the head, so he stumbled into the pile of banana boxes. Molly winced as they came crashing down on him, and she only hoped the tarantula would remain unharmed.

When Sherlock grabbed her hand, she had a moment to regret not taking off her life jacket, as she feared her fleeing run was more of a waddle, but then they were darting back through the maze of cargo, and she decided she should worry about that later.

Molly kept shooting glances behind them as they ran, but de Vries did not reappear. She hoped he’d been knocked unconscious.

Finally, they reached the door they’d come through when climbing aboard. Together, they muscled it open. Molly sighed at the futility of it all when she saw that, of course, Bill O’ Brien’s fishing boat was no long abreast with the freighter.

“Molly, do you see that shape out there to your left, about one hundred yards away? That’s O’Brien. I’m terribly sorry to do this. Kick hard away from the ship and head that way. Be quick.”

And at that, he pushed her overboard.

The frigidly cold water only enveloped her briefly before her life vest pulled her back to the surface. She sputtered, blinking furiously to get the stinging brine out of her eyes. Molly vaguely heard another splash, and then Sherlock was next to her in the water.

“Come on, no time for a pleasure swim,” he said, and then he was off, making sure strokes in a front crawl through the water.

Molly was too afraid that de Vries would suddenly open fired on them from the ship, or something equally dire, to do much cursing in her head, but she promised that she would allow herself that one petty outlet of rage once they made land again. If they ever did.

Swimming with a life vest that constantly tried to roll her body over in the water was an exhausting feat, but after what felt like hours, she made it to O’Brien’s boat. Sherlock was already back onboard, watching her struggle through the waves.

When she reached the portside of the boat, she briefly thought it might be best for her to loop her hand through the fishing net hanging off of its side, and just let them tow her in, such was her exhaustion. But then Sherlock bent over the rail and gripped the shoulders of her vest, hoisting her out of the water and on to the boat deck.

“You… are such a berk,” she muttered to him through chattering teeth.

“What, for saving your life? Well, that’s a fine thanks,” he said waspishly.

“No. For dragging me into this in the first place. I could right now be catching up on my backlog of _Eastenders_ , but no, instead I’m out here catching hypothermia.”

Sherlock opened his mouth, possibly with a scathing retort, but then, miraculously, her words gave him pause. He sighed and said, “You’re right. I apologize, Molly. I didn’t properly weigh the risks.”

He helped her up onto the bench ran along the deck rail, sitting beside her.

“It’s alright,” she sighed. “Though I’m still unclear why you needed me along.”

She didn’t think it was just the cold that had color flooding into his cheeks and the tips of his ears. He refused to meet her eyes as he mumbled a reply.

“Sorry,” she said, “I didn’t catch that.”

He cleared his throat. “I said, I wanted to spend some time with you. Say, O’Brien, could we get some dry clothes or a blanket or something?” He asked more loudly, craning his neck to look for the fisherman. “We’re a tad cold here.”

Molly stared at him, though he still avoided her gaze. “Sherlock… why didn’t you just ask me to coffee?” She asked in amazement.

“Coffee? We have coffee all the time. At Barts,” He said, as he helpfully pulled a piece of kelp from her hair.

Just then, O’Brien appeared from the helm, holding a lone, threadbare blanket. “Sorry, it’s the best I can do. I don’t normally deal with this type of situation.”

Sherlock and Molly grunted and murmured their thanks, respectively, and Molly set to shucking her outermost, waterlogged layers. Once she was stripped down her sodden turtleneck, she unfolded the blanket and threw it over Sherlock’s and her shoulders, clutching it closed around them.

Tentatively, Sherlock edged closer to her until they sat hip to hip on the bench. Molly decided to take matters into her own hands, passing off her hold on the blanket to him so that she could wrap her arms around his waist and nestle her cheek to his shoulder.

“I’d love to spend more time with you, Sherlock. Just… maybe not something so action-filled, next time,” she said.

He smiled down and her a bit shyly, and then looked out at the watery horizon in front of them. 

“I have a mind to try an experiment with mold cultures on human flesh. I have a rather choice sample back at my flat, thanks to you. If you’d like to join me when we get back to London, maybe we could eat a meal together afterwards.”  

Gathering her nerve, Molly lifted her head and placed a light kiss on his mouth, before she laid her cheek back on his damp shoulder.

She sighed happily. “That sounds perfect.”

Maybe the North Sea wasn’t entirely bad, she thought to herself, as they bobbed along, heading back to shore. The sun had finally emerged, the air smelt crisp and fresh, and the good captain’s voice carried back to them from the helm. He sang, in a strong, clear tenor, something about “friggin’ in the riggin’”.  It was almost romantic.

All in all, Molly Hooper had had worse days.

* * *

 

 

**The End**

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: Sherlock does not belong to me. No infringement intended.
> 
> For those of you wondering (which is probably none of you), the song I mentioned at the beginning is called “Cruel Sister”, and the specific recording I had in mind is by the group Pentangle. I highly recommend everyone listen to it on YouTube, because it’s hilarious. I frequently serenade my sister with it to make sure she knows that she’ll never manage to drown me. And believe me, she’s tried.
> 
> Also: it is now my headcanon that Sherlock is afraid of spiders.
> 
> That is all.
> 
> Thanks for reading, everyone!


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